The Swiss Experience

There's a common misunderstanding amongst the unfamiliar, that Swiss public transport offers some kind of euphoric, nirvana like experience. Clearly this is bullshit. Those of us with the London tube as a comparable know that in reality it is far, far better than that.

Here in Switzerland, immediately upon entering the palatial chariot of a train carriage, you are enthusiastically fellated by a supermodel. Should you wish, you can eat the finest lobster, cooked exclusively by Jamie Oliver, and have the bastard summarily executed in front of you afterwards.

My experience of any journey of similar length in London taught me that I may as well cut off the tips of my fingers and drag myself with the bloody stumps through a path of gritted salt. The chances of reaching my destination would be improved and it would certainly make for a far more pleasurable experience.

This glorious life that Switzerland has bestowed on me has not exactly been reciprocated with a demonstration of my immediate willingness to adapt to the culture. I still spend most of my time speaking to English people, mostly in English pubs. Take the language, for instance. I’ve watched far too many war films to take it seriously. Everything sounds like it should be said through barbed wire.

Language has never been a forte of mine, ranking about on par with my ability to menstruate. It is, however, shameful that after two years I can only can order beer and ask where the toilets are. The astute among you will note the subtle connection.

I will try and learn at some point, just as soon as I’ve gotten over this chronic laziness. Anyway, I'm stopping before I get too introspective and start talking how about mummy didn't hug me enough and how that led to my pole dancing.